


The Shoulder Scar

by PubliusEros



Category: Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken | Fire Emblem: Blazing Sword
Genre: Hand Jobs, Injury Recovery, M/M, Sexual Experimentation, Teenage Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 17:42:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11318424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PubliusEros/pseuds/PubliusEros
Summary: Hector's really messed it up this time. Right when his lord brother needs him on his best behaviour throughout their diplomatic visit to Castle Pherae, he's gone and hurt Eliwood during a sparring session! With his pride - and a very dear friendship - on the line, Hector knows just one thing: he needs to make it right.No matter what it takes.





	The Shoulder Scar

The room was strained with a terrible silence that, more than malice, spoke of a great and unpleasant awkwardness. It was broken only by the occasional, pitiable sniffing of a boy whose desperate desire to remain strong in the face of pain caused juvenile tears to threaten at each new sting.

The boy in question was the young Prince Eliwood, freshly fourteen, doing his best to appear unphased and resolute even as the exacting gaze of some of the country’s most powerful people glared directly down at his exposed torso. He was upright on a wooden chair by the infirmary window, pristine collared shirt pulled back to his stomach, revealing the soft white skin of his shoulder interrupted by a long, thin gash that had bled quite profusely, with a hefty quantity of bloodied white bandages heaped on the floor next to the boy. A stuffy cleric was delicately applying the herbed ointment of an orange-bottled vulnerary to the wound, the red-haired prince’s involuntary sniffs and jerks at each new application of the stuff not hampering the cleric’s technique at all.

Watching this fleshy drama unfold was Eliwood’s own father Elbert, Marquess of his home march of Pherae, along with his most trusted vassal, the knight Marcus; the third man however was altogether more foreign. A hard-looking presence with strong blue hair and stern features, this man was a visiting lord of the highest calibre.

“Lord Elbert, I sincerely hope this does not…” The outsider began.

“Don’t be foolish, Uther,” Elbert replied immediately. “This will be an important lesson for both of them.”

Newly-ascended and diplomatically inexperienced, Marquess Uther of Ostia all but fumed in his place as he watched his host’s son squirm and shiver at the treatment of this wound – a wound given by Uther’s own younger brother.

This sibling, the usually brash Prince Hector, now watched red-faced from behind the wall of men worriedly, the slim training axe that had dealt the blow still in his hand. Uther spun around and shot him a dirty glance as the cleric, satisfied, gingerly brought the wounded prince to his feet and instructed him to remove the rest of his shirt, as it had been cut and bloodied also in the bout that had led to this. The mood seemed to relax as Eliwood managed to flex his shoulder with only the slightest wince, beginning to undo the remaining buttons without reopening the wound.

“What about a staff?” Hector spoke up, hoping his voice would not crack out of nervousness as he did so. “Surely even a basic one would-”

“Silence, Hector,” Uther urged. “They do things different here. You’ve got a lot-”

“Uther, please.” Elbert interrupted once more. “This is an overreaction. My son is fine, aren’t you, Eliwood?”

The young prince nodded quietly as he slipped on a loose white shirt, careful to not disturb the bandages as he did so.

“Lord Hector, one of the key strengths of Pherae’s cavalry is their speed and momentum,” Marcus explained, turning to face the young man. “They do their best not to be slowed down, and that means self-treatment of one’s wounds by way of common medicine is essential. We don’t want Lycia’s frontline over-reliant on healing staves.”

A few more moments of treatment, and the cleric nodded, satisfied. “That should do it. Whatever you do, don’t show him to the old bat living down in the barracks.”

Elbert thanked him, the curate bowing to the vermillion Marquess as he took his leave from the improvised sickbay. Marcus also received his due, the purple-haired knight chuckling as he left.

“The first good hit is always a shock,” he said, directing his gaze from father to son, “but I’ve seen many men twice his age react half as well. You’ll make a fine knight yet, young master.”

“Thank you, Marcus,” Elbert replied, every inch the experienced mediator. “You are dismissed. Lord Uther, we will resume shortly in the atrium. Come, Eliwood – your mother is keen to see you patched up with her own eyes.”

“Yes, father,” the prince in question piped up for the first time since his treatment, voice still trembling slightly as he fell in behind his lord parent’s step. Hector stammered Eliwood’s name weakly as the smaller boy passed, but the redhead did not break gaze from his father’s back for even a second.

It was when the host party had cleared the hallway beyond that Hector found himself wheeled around by his royal brother and delivered a glare that could snap iron in twain.

“Can I leave you alone for even one blasted second?” Uther groaned. “I brought you with me because at least around Eliwood you usually mellow out a little, but…” Exhaling through his nostrils, Uther tried to compose himself. “You’ve gone and hurt him while we’re under his roof. What would our father think, the Saint rest his soul, if he saw you disgrace us like this…”

“Brother!” Hector pleaded. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to! We were just sparring, and he rose too late, and I just…”

“Hector,” Uther shook his head. “A spar isn’t a duel. It’s a conversation. And last time we visited, your discipline was still the sword, not the axe. Did you even give him a second to adjust?”

The younger brother remained tellingly silent. This uncomfortable gap in sound lingered in the air for a few painful seconds.

Uther let out a sigh. “Alright. Gods. Thanks to you, I now have to apologise to the Lady Eleanora.” He ran a stressed hand through his slicked-back hair. “Elbert may have been good about it, but he has to be. You mark my words, you and Eliwood better be very publically speaking again soon, or all armoury access is revoked indefinitely – and that’s just the start.” The lord moved to the doorway, leaving a distraught brother in his wake.

“But, brother!” Hector’s shame doubled as the lordling watched his brother make the turn back towards his official business. “I don’t know what to do!”

“I don’t care what you do!” Uther snapped. “All I know is, Prince Eliwood had better be _singing_ at the dinner table tonight, you hear me?”

\--

Hector shifted impatiently on his stool, the wooden tripod too low to the ground and too small a surface area for him to be comfortable resting on. He hunched over it, arm lazily dangling outside his hulking form and probing the canvas before him with disinterested irritation. Art was not something he had much time for, at least the act of composition, and so as his easel suspended his work in front of him he could only feel further annoyance at its substandard quality.

The task was portraiture; the Ostian lordling’s offering was not. Well, a figure was at the centre of its focus, however it was far from an examination of their character. Rather, this supposed portrait of the great warrior Durban was less an elaboration on his feats and traits and more a thinly-veiled excuse for Hector to idly doodle a weapon of some kind. The vague outline of the classical hero was poorly defined, a mere scribble compared to the lovingly coloured and shaded weapon in the man’s hand – indeed, the mighty axe Armads, famed for its enormous size and strength, was the only thing in the illustration that gleamed.

Hector found the silence of the small studio interminable, and despite the elegant doors flung wide open to the terrace outside letting in a passive breeze, the smell of oily paint still caused his nostrils to wrinkle. To his right, Eliwood painted away contentedly, the slight protruding of his cheek indicating he had his tongue fixed between his teeth in concentration. There were two others behind them, the son and daughter of a local landowner whose names Hector hadn’t bothered to memorise, and at the front of the class was Petrarch, the white-haired academic who directed the class.

“Sir,” Hector started, causing the two behind him to look up momentarily. “If I may ask, why does painting class remain mandatory here in Pherae? In Ostia I had the opportunity to not continue it shortly after my thirteenth birthday.”

Old Petrarch regarded the inquisitive prince with a hawklike gaze, one that examined and analysed as he stalked over to Hector’s position and regarded his canvas critically.

“Genre work,” he grumbled scornfully, before addressing the question. “Ostia may be mighty, young Prince, but here in Pherae our culture is a crossroads of all Elibe. Artists and merchants from everywhere stop here on their way across the continent, from Bern Keep all the way to the Western Isles! As such, our lordship must be attuned to the nuances of Pherae’s thriving artistic landscape. Why, they say Lord Elbert’s grandfather was a poet so gifted the academics scoured his legislature for meter and rhyme!”

Hector, far from humbled, felt the urge to argue grow within him. “But always such stuffy styles! Why all these boring landscapes? Why all these ancient poets? Why those paintings of fruit and cheese?”

“The term, young man,” Petrarch heaved, “is still-life!”

“Exactly!” Hector shot back. “What emotion does it inspire? What can’t a picture of Durban do that a painting of-”

He only just now turned to look at his friend’s painting, and was surprised to see someone he’d never seen before. Eliwood had painted his entire canvas pearl, giving the whole image a pinkish tinge that perfectly complemented the cerulean and scarlet that adorned its centre. An ovaloid rim of white willow flowers framed the torso of a pale-skinned woman, tall and slender, whose flowing celeste hair brushed well past her shoulders. She had her long arms posed in a flourish, adorning the sides of a flowing icy dress, glacial velvet topped by rich seams of oaken leather. The face atop her tall neck was dignified yet despondent, pursed lips and piercing crimson eyes, yet had a soft, inviting smile that gave her presence beyond her two dimensions.

Hector fell silent as he looked at the unfamiliar visage. The teacher, who had been expecting further belligerence from the boy, then turned to examine Eliwood’s offering. “Ah,” the professor sighed. “The sister.”

“Who?” Hector asked, deflecting the question back to the other two students, who diverted their gaze – afraid to question the intelligence of a prince such as him.

Eliwood blushed and mumbled something unheard at Hector, the lithe prince shaking his head.

“A figure from folklore,” Petrarch explained, though Hector had stopped listening the moment Eliwood had deigned to address him again. “House Pherae recently bore host to an exhibition of Ilian art… the prince was quite taken by one particular piece which illustrated the famous folk tale of the sibling ice dragons who sought refuge deep within the frozen woods.”

Hector looked at Eliwood, watching the youth gazing into the portrait with a mix of trepidation and mild frustration. Hector could tell he was not fully satisfied with the work, the boy’s reddened cheeks and sharp breaths indicating his concern that he wasn’t doing the beauteous vision justice. The Ostian chuckled.

“So,” the old man’s voice came again, tearing Hector from his trance of observation. “Have I suitably corrected you, Prince Hector?”

Hector was forced to make a tactical retreat from the instructor’s gaze. “Yes, sir.”

“Good!” the old man fussed as he moved towards the terrace for some fresh air. “And, my prince, modern consensus is that the Armads was shaped more like a scythe than an axe, and sized for an ordinary man.”

Hector sunk down in his stool. “Bull,” he argued, low enough for no-one else to hear. “I bet Armads was huge.”

The silence that followed gave the wind leave to enter, a slight whistle of the breeze filtering into the room and gently ruffling that which could be ruffled. Hector glanced at the old man out on the terrace and, finding him suitably out of earshot, took the opportunity to lightly nudge his maligned friend’s shin with his boot.

“Hey,” Hector whispered. “Hey, Eliwood.”

The boy in question sighed almost imperceptibly. Almost.

“C’mon,” Hector grinned, seeing an opening, the slightest gap in his defences. “You can’t keep it up. You know you can’t. I know you can’t. Just-”

“Hector!” Eliwood hissed, snapping left to face him, annoyance evident on his features. “You’re disturbing Randolph and Maria.”

The other two, who had looked up to watch the highborns bicker, quickly turned back to their work.

“No I’m not,” Hector scoffed. “There’s no attention to be paid here. Besides, I have an apology to make.”

“Well, stow it!” The Pheraen turned his nose up. “Maybe later.”

“Come on,” Hector groaned. “My brother says if I don’t apologise, he’s gonna revoke all armoury rights for me back home.”

The redhead sighed again, remaining quiet. He put his brush down resignedly – Hector seized the moment. “I messed up,” the visitor grunted. “I should’ve given you a second to adjust. Maybe not been so eager.”

Further silence from the other lord.

“You getting hurt was my fault.”

Eliwood bit his lower lip. Hector could feel the boy close to caving.

“And I think,” the taller boy assured, “you took that hit like a real knight of Lycia.”

Eliwood looked down, hushed a moment more, before he pouted, “You really think so?”

Hector dove in. “Of course I do! Now come on, man, what d’you say? Are we good?”

Eliwood let out a smile and nodded weakly, causing Hector to laugh loudly and give his host a fond clap on the back. “See?” he guffawed. “That’s more like it! You’ve gone and saved my sorry hide this time!”

A frown, however, returned to Eliwood’s face, and the Pheraen asked again. “Do you mean it?”

“What, you taking the hit?” Hector asked incredulously, not waiting for confirmation before answering. “Well, I wouldn’t have needed the vulnerary, but, of course! For taking an axe to the shoulder, you’ve recovered really well.”

Eliwood looked right back from his painting to his feet, the young man struggling for something to find visual solace in. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “You’re right.”

“Of course I am!” Hector added, trying to not let his mood be dampened by his friend’s continued melancholy. “Now come on Eliwood, cheer up, class is about to-”

“About to what, Prince Hector?”

The boy hadn’t heard or seen old Petrarch make his return to the studio, having been too busy with the business of schoolyard diplomacy. “Ah, nothing, sir,” he improvised, “I’m just concerned for Eliwood, is all.” He hoped Eliwood would forgive him anew for using such an excuse.

“Well!” the old man exclaimed. “A few minutes left there may be, but there is still time enough to-”

“No, sir,” Eliwood piped up, suddenly rising to a standing position. “Hector’s concern is genuine. May I please be excused early to change my dressing, sir?”

Petrarch seemed surprised a moment longer before relenting. “Of course, Prince Eliwood,” he nodded. “You must take it easy for the next few days, after all. Come back tomorrow and I’ll help you refine the floral motif on your framing.”

“Thank you, sir.” Eliwood bowed to his teacher, stooped low to pick up his leather book-bag, and turned for the classroom exit without further ceremony. Concerned, Hector tried to stand also and follow him; but was stopped as soon as he started, withering back under the instructor’s piercing gaze.

“And where do you think you’re going?” He barked. “I won’t let you leave for tactics with so white a canvas. You’ve got five perfectly good minutes,” he thrust a wide-brimmed paintbrush into Hector’s hands, “so get some colour on something!”

Hector obediently began to fill in empty space, but his gaze darted continuously to the exit, watching Eliwood’s back worriedly as it diminished in size by way of the corridor’s length. It was only after the younger boy had vanished from sight entirely that Hector cast another glance at the lordling’s portrait and, though he did not know it then, felt a pang of jealousy flits its envious way towards the dragon woman depicted on it.

\--

“We must remember,” Marcus declared, his voice reaching far in the dusty, stone-walled chamber. “We must remember the duty of a Pherae knight at war.”

The tactics session was a much more sombre affair, mostly due to its being an actual class for learning knights of Pherae’s military – but as Ostia’s dignitaries were visiting, this lesson was more ceremony than anything. Hector himself was sat near the front of the room, distinctly aware of the silent horde of Pheraen knights behind and around him – he recognised Elbert’s captain of the guard, Harken, and Lady Eleanora’s personal steward, Isadora. His brother was in the seat to his left, and to his right was an empty place where he imagined Eliwood would go, were he here. The young lord’s absence was noted as Lord Elbert waited patiently in the open doorway, however the Marquess had nodded at Marcus to begin regardless.

“We must remember that we are every inch the standard in our left hand as we are the sword in our right,” Marcus continued, the speech causing heads to nod agreeably. “In battle we are expected to be gallant, and in victory we are expected to be nothing short of magnanimous.”

Though the words were stirring, Hector took more interest in noticing that his friend had tiptoed into the room silently, Elbert greeting the boy wordlessly.

“For our duty is Pherae’s mercy,” Marcus growled. “We protect civilians, no matter to whom they swear fealty. We spare a man if his sword is surrendered, no matter how bloodied his hands are. And we leave no doubt in the minds of all,” he added, “that the knights of Pherae are mercy made manifest, that we deliver justice, flawless and inevitable, upon those who deserve it and only those.”

Hector was staring Eliwood up and down from a distance. He watched as his friend stood, rapt in view of Marcus, his father’s hand proudly perched upon his uninjured shoulder. Hector could not fathom why, but Eliwood ‘changing his dress’ had been quite literal – he now wore a rather formal jacket, a thick scarlet one that matched his hair and gave off a regal appearance with golden buttons and lining. Hector also couldn’t help but notice that the boy looked tired.

“And you remember,” Marcus went on, “that where we go, our flags do not fly and our towers do not raise. A peoples’ home is steeped in history, their own history. The Saint forbid we ever fight Etruria, yet if we do remember that it is from there that Elimine ascended to heaven. Pray for mercy if we ever war with Bern, yet if we do remember that it is there that dragons first flew and still fly today.”

The father and son of Pherae took the opportunity to stealth their way over into their seats, Eliwood landing softly on the seat next to Hector’s as predicted.

“This is the duty of a Pherae knight at war,” Marcus began to conclude. “To be merciful. To be respectful. To be all the honour and decency that our enemy would deny us. To prove there is a human, empathy and all, behind sallet and shield.”

By now, there was nary shuffle or shiver in the torch-lit room as all watched at attention, transfixed by Marcus’ knightly sentiment. “We are the battle-standard of a better world,” he grumbled. “So we must remember that.”

Applause began instantly from Isadora’s position and spread like wildfire across the enclosed space, ending up as thumping, percussive strains of appreciation that made itself known from wall to reinforced wall. Marcus bowed slightly in reception of the applause, then when it settled down Marcus drew attention to their special guests.

“Now, before we begin, you all may be aware of the special guests in our front row. So special, in fact, that they get a seat.” Laughter found its good-natured way across the war room. “Our Marquess and our prince, and those of our closest allies in Ostia. A round, if you will, for Uther and Hector!” Applause again rang throughout the enclosure, but only until Uther waved it down respectfully.

Hector reflected on Marcus’ words as the knight began his lesson in earnest – and a lot of the ways Eliwood acted began to make total sense to him. Pherae was a land born of gentleness, a place of songs and tales where the cultural victory was every bit as important as the military one. It only seemed natural, then, that someone as forthright and gentlemanly as Eliwood would emerge from this environment. Hector turned to his right and beheld the young man. The redhead was avoiding Hector’s gaze again, doing his best to track Marcus’ topic with a clearly fading span of attention.

The better part of an hour passed before Marcus finally proposed a moment’s pause in the lesson. As if by expectation alone a murmur of soldier’s chatter arose, and Elbert stood to leave the room as an advisor appeared in the door. This left his son sitting alone with the Ostians, shifting in his seat uncomfortably and occasionally shaking his head softly as though to bring himself back to attention.

Uther turned briefly to his younger brother and shot a look, cocking his head towards Eliwood inquiringly. Hector grasped the meaning immediately, and became eager to prove that he and the usually chatty Eliwood had made up. The larger prince rashly wrapped his arm around the redhead’s back and over his good shoulder. This made the lordling all but jump in his seat, the contact clearly a surprise. His shoulders tensed, his body bristled, and Hector swore he saw Eliwood’s face flash with the briefest of fears. Hector retracted his arm as Eliwood slumped in his seat resignedly, gaze fixed shamefully on his boots.

“Blast,” Hector cursed, all but silently.

Uther wordlessly glared daggers at his brother and shook his head, the fading patience in his eyes reminding Hector of his ever-diminishing time and options. Marcus then reconvened the discussion, and so all Hector could do was clench his resting fists on his thighs uselessly and let the doubts blossom in his mind.

\--

The air was brisk on the castle grounds as Hector stepped into the open green, ghosting Eliwood as the Pheraen walked in front of him. The redhead was seemingly determined not to break gaze with the horizon. Just as the last of the social knights cleared the scene Hector quickened his pace, lengthening his stride to meet his friend as he strolled down the sandstone path leading down to the barracks and stables where their equestrian class was to be held.

“You’re really cutting it close, you know.” Hector mumbled to the boy. “That would’ve been a perfect time to bring it in.”

Eliwood avoided meeting Hector’s gaze, instead choosing to regard the castle grounds with a furrowed brow. He abstained from comment.

“Hey, come on, Eliwood,” Hector corralled the prince, stepping closer as his sense of worry built with the redhead’s lengthening silence. “You don’t have to keep the act up when it’s just us.”

Eliwood finally sighed, hissing out: “An act? Do you really think this an act, Hector?”

Hector grumbled in response, a frustrated groan escaping his pressed lips. “Come on, man! You said we were good.”

“I said no such thing!” Eliwood snapped back. “And I don’t see why we should be. No apology, no –”

“An apology?” Hector scoffed, growing indignant. “For what? Winning?”

“This is what I mean!” Eliwood pressed on. “Just when I think you’re going to give us _lesser creatures_ ,” he spat the words out with no small amount of self-loathing, “a chance, you do this!”

“Since when have I been too much for you?” Hector demanded. “This is the first I’m hearing of it. Besides, I asked you if we were good and you gave me a very definite nod. Are you going back on your word? Not a good show for a gentleman knight of Pherae.”

Eliwood’s cheeks reddened as Hector’s jab struck his pride. “No good being a gentleman if you’re fighting a _brute_ ,” he rebuked.

Hector began to laugh, a roaring bugle-call that pierced ears both near and distant. “Is that what this is about?” he demanded, feeling the younger prince slump even further as Hector closed in on Eliwood’s emotions like a wolf-pack. “Are you just mad you got beat by a big slow axe?”

“No,” Eliwood blurted defensively, accelerating his step out of annoyance, “I’m mad you’re so pleased with yourself about it. You’re always so pleased about it.”

At this Hector felt a flash of anger in his heart as he realised Eliwood’s hurt may be more than he first assumed. He kept pace with the redhead and reached out for his crimson sleeve, wrapping strong fingers around the lordling’s forearm. “Now look here-”

Eliwood thrashed with a grunt, Hector’s hand jerking back in surprise as the boy shot out of his range and whirled around to confront him.

“You don’t understand,” Eliwood burst out. “We were fine, I was happy again, until you-” Eliwood lost his proverbial spine in the middle of this rebuke and he calmed himself back to speech. “It just always has to be about you, doesn’t it?”

“What, do I have to tiptoe around you now when we spar? Wait on you with a handkerchief?” Hector began to pace around the Pheraen, his usual intensity manifesting in his movements instinctively. Eliwood struggled to keep pace in turning to face him. “You know, you lost that fight fair and square, Eliwood. I’ve beaten you before and after this I’m gonna make sure to beat you again. So just spit it out. Why are you so angry?”

“Because I should have won!” Eliwood shouted, his eyes all but pleading with Hector’s. “I had every advantage. I’m more accurate, I’m faster, you’re just learning the axe _and_ you’re supposed to be at a disadvantage with it.” The boy had hot tears brimming in his eyes now as Hector’s anger deflated. Eliwood realised his strident emotion and spun, hiding his face out of embarrassment but only succeeding in invoking a stronger fluster. “How am I supposed to be a strong leader if I can’t even beat you at your worst?”

Hector hesitated in approaching his distraught friend, but ultimately attempted to place a hand on the boy’s shoulder awkwardly. “Are… are you okay, Eliwood?” Hector asked dumbly as the crimson boy held back tears.

“Yes!” he replied fervently, spinning back around. “In fact – let’s go get our weapons, Hector!”

“Eliwood, that’s too much. You’re upset. I-”

“No! I’m challenging you. You’re gonna lose this time-”

“Will you just shut up and let me apologise?”

“You can apologise by getting your axe!”

This last statement by Eliwood shocked Hector, who was now wavering somewhere between helplessness and worry as he glimpsed the Pheraen’s brow now glistening with strained sweat. “Do you mean that? Is that what it’s gonna take?” the Ostian asked tentatively.

“Yes. On my word,” Eliwood returned. “You give me one more chance to-” his face scrunched briefly in pain. “One more chance to beat you, and I’ll smile and laugh at all the right moments.”

Hector considered pointing out Eliwood’s physical discomfort, but thought better of it, knowing it would only enrage the prince further. Instead, he gave in to the panting boy’s demand and turned on his heel, spinning around to make his way back towards the armoury.

“Oh, a-and Hector?”

The taller boy turned back around, only to be shocked by what he saw.

“C-could you please… get… my sword… too…”

Eliwood, deathly pale and gasping for air, stumbled forward, his eyelids fluttering to a close as the young man collapsed to the ground, hitting the grass with a whisper and a dull thud.

After a moment of stunned silence, Hector called his friend’s name as he let fall what he was carrying and darted to the collapsed youth’s side, quickly dropping down next to Eliwood and casting a panicked glance over his immobile form. Instinct kicked in, and immediately Hector’s arms gingerly reached out and took the boy’s torso, delicately rotating Eliwood’s slumped form onto his back and elevating the torso against his knee. Hector all but tore his right glove off, casting the cloth aside and holding the back of his hand directly shy of Eliwood’s parted lips. He waited, and hoped.

It was there. Shallow, stale, and inconstant, but there was breath. Taking a half-second to express relief, Hector then went to the topmost button on Eliwood’s red jacket, undoing the thing to best leave the airways unrestricted. It was as he pried open this small difference that he caught side of red underneath. A deeper shade, wettened and stark.

“Oh, hell.” Hector’s voice was layered with dread as he began to fumble with the other buttons, undoing the garment in increments and flinging the thing open. The cloth parted to reveal that the vast majority of Eliwood’s shirt was caked in still-moist blood, his entire torso covered in a deep crimson puddle of the stuff. Renewed panic began to grip Hector, as the lordling pushed back the subconscious thought that there was no more to be done.

Refusing this fatal conclusion, Hector evaluated his options. The castle had grown further away than he’d thought, and its stone walls held the promise of a great deal of panicked guards and flustered nobles long before Eliwood would get the treatment he so obviously needed. No, it was as Hector turned to face the closer barracks than he began to see the more appealing option – the thought of direct action and immediate treatment pacifying his racing mind.

Hector summoned all his strength as he took the unconscious lord’s form and draped it, arms first, over his shoulder. He struggled to his feet, Eliwood’s added weight craning his form to a laboured stoop, but gritted his teeth and – with fear and frustration reigning in his heart – began to walk, step by solid step, down the way to the barracks.

\--

Within the sanctum of his classroom, Marcus taught his knights the virtues of theory. A far cry from the philosophy of the morning’s tactics ‘lesson’, which had in fact been an artistic exercise typical of Pheraen leadership, in these sessions unattended by barons and heads of state did only the cruel logic of the battlefield rule.

“The truth is,” he proselytised, “whether they intend to or not, each nation-state of significant military force has come to have a formation around which their strategy is formed. Bern has the wyvern scourge, Ostia the armour phalanx. These strategies take advantage of the unique strengths and specialities that occur naturally out of training in this environment. As such, it becomes our duty to refine our renowned cavalry forces into a similarly feared fixture of battle. Yes, Corporal?”

The grey-plated knight who had risen out of his seat to put forth a question stood at attention. “Sir! What about informal forces? Why should irregular soldiers be dignified by a formal response?”

Marcus nodded at the question. “You’re talking about Sacae, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“It’s not a far-fetched idea. Lord Lundgren of Caelin nearly called on Lycia for a military response after Marquess Hausen’s daughter Madelyn fell in love with a Sacaen chief,” Marcus elaborated. “She chose to abdicate her position, but a great many lords bayed for blood regardless.” The veteran knight thought calmly. “You’re right in that often, irregular forces would use strategies unaccounted for by formal armies. For instance, that many nomadic bowmen on horseback would fell Bern’s wyvern forces with great efficiency. The implications of that for us are-”

Marcus was interrupted by the deep wooden crash of the classroom’s dual doors being flung open, the hinges guiding their bulk into colliding against the frame from which they opened. There, standing in the doorway, heaving and haggard-looking, was the blue-clad form of Hector, prince of Ostia – and suspended on his back, covered in blood and unmoving, was Pherae’s heir and hope.

All eyes took this sight in, silent realisation dawning across the collected knights. A single drop of blood fell from Eliwood’s dangling hand onto the stone tiles below.

“Sir Marcus,” Hector breathed. “Please.”

“DISMISSED! Everyone confined to quarters!” Marcus barked as instantly thirty knights jumped to their feet, gathered their materials in a panicked rush, and made for the exit. “Anyone who chatters about this is on latrine duty for a week!” He roared after the knights as he strode down to meet Hector.

“He’s alive. Breathing.” Hector summarised as Marcus went behind Hector to best examine the unconscious lord.

“By the Saint,” Marcus growled, “that’s a lot of blood.”

Hector felt rare and panicked tears threaten to sting his eyes.

“Corporal!” Marcus called out to the knight-in-training who had asked him the question earlier. The knight snapped to attention as he filtered out of the room with the rest of his gawking classmates. “Get me our special guest, now.”

“Y-yes sir!” the man skipped the customary bow and took off down the hallway, splitting out from the rest of the men returning to quarters.

“Now, I’m sorry, but I have to ask. Was this you?” Marcus regarded Hector sternly as the two men set about the task of gently removing the unconscious prince from Hector’s shoulders and laying him out on one of the great oaken tables that, just a moment earlier, had been littered by books and ink.

“No!” Hector replied. “We had an argument, and he just collapsed. I decided to bring him here.”

“You made the right call,” Marcus breathed as he performed much the same checks Hector did – that he was breathing, that his airways were unrestricted, and his head firmly supported. He then grimly checked Eliwood’s wrist for a pulse, and nodded. “Good. No need for compressions.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Hector asked.

“He is now,” Marcus grinned as he turned to witness the entry of the woman he had sent for. The woman was one Hector had not seen in his visits to Castle Pherae – he would have remembered her. Despite the wrinkles of a woman in her mid-fifties, she had a tall and confident stride, a strut which propelled forward a strong-postured woman. Greying purple hair poured over her shoulder in long, sublime loops. She wore no armour, instead being adorned in the moonlight and pearl dress wear of the magical academia. Her keen, hawkish eyes regarded the scene curiously as she gaited towards the three men – Hector couldn’t help but notice the bolting insignia of the Etrurian Valkyries embroidered on the left shoulder of her shawl. It looked aged and frayed, a memento of a relationship long past.

“Hector, this is Niime, our guest scholar-in-residence and current tutor to our magical mounted units. Niime, this is-”

“Hector of Ostia,” she said, throwing out a brief wave even as she didn’t regard the young man for a moment longer. “What’s happened here?”

“He just collapsed,” Hector pointed out. “I don’t know what could have done it.”

“It was that fool Gruster that treated him this morning, right?” Niime mused as she flexed her thin medic’s fingers and began to swiftly undo Eliwood’s once-white shirt. “Did the simpleton forget to apply a vulnerary?”

“No, he did,” Marcus answered, “and it was plenty strong. It should have held. Unless-”

The Druid pulled back the proverbial curtain, peeling the moist reddened fabric away to reveal the wound – the line stuck out among the crimson flesh, dark and angry.

“Unless Eliwood scrubbed it off,” she completed.

“Oh, Gods…” Hector groaned, recalling his own false boast about not needing a vulnerary. Eliwood’s extended absence in changing the dressing now made sense, as did his heightened sensitivity to pain and surprise.

“That’s one reason to wear red,” Niime snapped him back to attention. “Alright, no time to lose. Get the shirt off.”

Guilt would have to wait, Hector decided. Marcus lifted Eliwood’s body for Hector to grab the soaked cloth – grimacing as it weeped blood when he gripped it – and pull it free from the boy’s torso. The woman had produced a tome, one Hector did not recognise; different from the usual spellbooks of fire and lighting, this one had bindings of cerulean blue.

A cold breeze suddenly swept through the room, sending a chill through Hector’s system as the woman tempered and invoked the innate arcane magic of the volume. A ball of creative energy materialised at the Valkyrie’s fingertips; Hector watched as the forces played and mingled, a crackling of electricity as the spell completed. Cold air accumulated around the sphere and excited it, at which point Niime collapsed the spell – instantly the ball of ice that had begun to form in the air inverted, and in its place was a shimmering, glistening pool of the purest water Hector had seen ever seen.

With great delicacy the Druid lowered this mystical bubble onto Eliwood, the liquid going across his body with ease and grace – flowing like oil and leaving not even a trace of the red ichor where it passed across the skin. When its work was done Eliwood’s pale skin was unblemished, and at Niime’s coaxing the spell rose back into the air, hovered tentatively over the floor – and then coalesced suddenly into a hard brick of ice that hit the floor and landed intact.

Hector loomed over his friend. “What next?” he breathed, still on edge.

“Relax, Prince Hector,” Marcus said. “We know when the situation is urgent.”

The violet-haired woman had swapped the tome for a staff, the short-handled wand of mending with its bulbous lapis core flashing as she ran the object over the threatening gash. There was a moment of no reaction as the internals of the wound closed – but then the skin knitted considerably, visibly coming together save for a red streak that had been through days of healing in just a few moments. Eliwood sucked in air, the boy’s lungs and heart cycling with renewed vigour even if he did not regain consciousness.

“And that’ll do it,” Niime stated, an air of triumph in her note. “Rest of it will heal naturally. Maybe a scar, who knows. What do we tell those in the castle?”

“Leave that to me,” Marcus growled. “I’ll set Elbert straight.” He caught sight of Hector’s concerned look. “And your brother too, lad. Don’t worry.”

“If I may, sir… what will you tell him?” Hector asked reservedly.

“The truth!” Marcus said as he regarded the peacefully sleeping boy on the table. “That your quick thinking just may have saved his life.” Marcus started out the door, but as he went leaned down and picked up the hunk of ice. “This is going to water the flowers,” he said with a chuckle.

The thought of that allowed Hector his first relieved smile. Eliwood would appreciate that.

“I reckon we’re done here,” Niime confirmed, hooking the staff back onto her belt. “You can come check on him later – but clear out, he’s my patient now.”

The bold Hector moved, positioning himself between Niime and the unconscious Eliwood. She looked at the Ostian when he did this, examining his eyes as if seeing him for the first time. Her fingers pushed her thick spectacles back up to the bridge of her nose.

“You wanna stay with him, blueberry?” She asked.

Hector nodded.

She sighed. “Alright, come on then. Keep his head up.”

\--

It was just under two hours later that, with an uncomfortable cough, Eliwood regained consciousness in the bed in the barracks sickbay. He heaved and sputtered, his lungs and throat clearing themselves of residue. The Pheraen became aware of his hands. His left hand balled and he hacked in its direction, but his right was depressingly empty – that was, until he felt another hand, large but gentle, enclose his fingers in its own.

“That’s it, get it all out. You’ll be alright.”

As the shuddering of his diaphragm slowed and then halted, the prince gingerly turned himself over. His heart filled with relief as he saw the cool blue eyes and reassuring smile of his best friend.

“Oh, Hector…” Eliwood pined, eyes immediately welling with tears as he lunged from his bed and wrapped his arms around the Ostian. “Hector! I’m so sorry!”

“Hey, hey!” Hector chuckled, returning the embrace. “You got nothing to apologise for. And take it easy.”

“But, but!” the lordling’s glassy eyes pleaded with Hector’s. “I said things I shouldn’t have!”

“So did I, you big sook!” The taller boy laughed. “Worse things, and more of them!” He scratched the back of his head sheepishly.

Suddenly, Eliwood looked downcast. “I didn’t… I didn’t get anyone in trouble, did I?”

Hector ran his thumb down Eliwood’s cheek, bringing the gaze of the redhead back on him. “You gave us a scare and a half,” he confessed, “but I’m just glad you’re okay.”

The youth tried to laugh, but without strong use of his voice it manifested as a shuddering giggle that pained it as it soothed him, his eyelids squeezing out the last of the day’s tears as he closed them shut. And there, in that small bed in the corner of the spacious sickbay, cool breeze from outside smelling of home, Eliwood sank into Hector’s touch.

 “Thank you,” Eliwood breathed softly, gazing once again at his benefactor. “I’m sorry I got so upset.”

Hector pulled him an inch closer to emphasise his point. “As I said, you’ve got nothing to apologise for.”

There were only centimetres between their faces now, and each breath and glance had nowhere to escape to – only dancing between the two.

“In fact,” Hector whispered, “it’s time I apologised.”

He leaned in, the distance between the boys becoming zero. Their lips touched, the motion causing both to flood with relief and passion. Hector led the movement, his subtly moving lips drawing the response forth from Eliwood’s, whose delicate breathing laid bare his excitement. Hector felt his cheeks reddening now, and so with a final glancing of loving pressure he withdrew.

“I-I shouldn’t have done that,” he stuttered. “I don’t know why I did it.”

“Hector…”

He turned again to face Eliwood, who now reclined contentedly but tiredly. There was, Hector realised, neither fright nor uncomfortableness in those eyes – only mild surprise and, somehow, gratefulness. “You don’t need to apologise for that,” the injured boy reassured him.

“You’re just saying that.” Hector’s rare nervousness manifested as he scratched at his neck.

“No, I’m not,” Eliwood answered, truthfully. “Please, stay.”

Minutes, then an hour, were whittled away in silent conversation between the two lords. Despite Eliwood’s bed being the only occupied one in the infirmary, their voices were kept to a slight whisper. Every now and again, one of the two would indulge in a slight kiss, a delicate partaking of the other’s cheek or lips, each little embrace of the sense an experiment they found to their liking.

Eventually, the warming orange glow of sunset began to make itself known in the wide shafts of light let in through the shuttered windows, and Eliwood began to shiver. Even though last light was yet an hour or two away, the gauzy fabric of the shirt he had been provided was thin and loose, and the twilight air had already begun to bite. He tried to minimalise his surface area, but the relative lack of blood circulating inside his body gave him little in the way of warmth.

“I’ll get you some thicker blankets,” Hector promised, rising to his feet.

“Th-thanks,” Eliwood exhaled, his teeth beginning to chatter.

Retrieving a thick woollen blanket from a shelf nearby, Hector cast a glance back at his friend. He had turned onto his side, hugging his own form for any scrap of heat he could muster. Feeling a flutter of pity and… something else at the sight, the blue-haired prince sighed and resigned himself to the action. He spread out the blanket, letting it fall behind him, and approached the bed.

“Mmh- Hector? What are you…?”

“I’m making sure you’re not catching cold.”

“But…”

Hector blushed. “Shh. You just relax and try to warm up.”

Hector climbed onto the bed and positioned himself around Eliwood, settling the younger boy into the shadow of his frame. Spreading the blanket up and over them, Hector protectively wrapped his arms around the boy’s front, clasping them over his chest. They lay like this for some minutes, the smaller prince’s shuddering breaths beginning to slowly subside as Hector’s heat radiated inward and brought solace – but not quickly enough, as Hector could still feel him shivering like a thing possessed.

“Hector…” Eliwood squeezed the words out, “I’m still cold.”

“I’m trying… what can I do?”

“Your hands are warm,” the younger prince murmured in suggestion.

Unclasping his hands, Hector put a palm against Eliwood’s chest, feeling the boy first flinch and then give into its presence.

“Closer,” Eliwood breathed. There was a shy neediness in his voice.

The Ostian prince smirked, and one of his hands surprised the smaller boy by creeping in under his shirt. “What about now?”

Eliwood craned his body and neck slightly to meet his friend’s. He said nothing, only gave Hector a look of fragile passion and leaned, the encouraging pleading of his kiss inviting him to continue.

Resigning himself to pleasing the boy, one of the Ostian’s hands crept from Eliwood’s chest and made its way in agonising slowness towards Eliwood’s waist. The Pheraen all but writhed under the movement, craning his back and twitching in reaction to the fingers as they traced the skin that led down from the prince’s stomach. At his waist Hector’s fingers were stopped by the thin – and cold – fingers of the other boy.

“Are you sure?” Eliwood panted.

“It’ll be alright,” Hector answered in confidence. “Just pretend I’m that dragon woman.”

“I don’t… want to,” Eliwood whispered. “I’d prefer… you.”

The taller boy gave off a husky laugh. “You’re enjoying this, huh?” His fingers easily unfastened the buttons that held the prince’s thin trousers, slipping over the hardened flesh of the young man’s shaft. “I’m surprised you have enough blood left for that.”

Eliwood almost seemed to ignore the joke, his eyes now closed and his features relaxed to ecstasy as Hector began to softly stroke him through his undergarments. Hector’s other hand had fixated itself on Eliwood’s chest, the boy occasionally shuddering as it repositioned and warmed a fresh portion of his torso. Rhythmically, Hector’s fingers rubbed over Eliwood’s shaft, eliciting a soft gasp every now and then from the besieged prince.

Without warning, the hand entered Eliwood’s underwear, flesh now meeting flesh as Hector’s strong fingers gently grasped and touched at the sticky, swollen surface of Eliwood’s hardened shaft. Clasping it delicately, Hector began to pull and rub as Eliwood’s hand had to go to his own mouth to prevent a cry of ecstasy. A soft cooing of pleasure still escaped the prince’s lips on occasion though, as the larger boy kissed up and down his cool neck, breathing silent blessings upon its softness.

Eliwood began to moan more audibly now, his hands going weak from the unexpected ripples of demanding, constraining, building pressure that now had his body shuddering in pleasure. Pulling through two layers of fabric, there was no room for the movement to deviate – and so slick heat continued to build around the prince’s member as Hector’s movement accelerated, eliciting more strong waves of delight to strike Eliwood to his core. Hector’s idle hand flew to Eliwood’s mouth as he threatened to shriek in pleasure from the joy of it all, his soft chirpings of joy building in frequency and intensity.

“Hector, I – _aaahnn_ …” he moaned, the sentence nipped in the bud as the friend’s hand pushed two fingers into Eliwood’s mouth and held back the sounds from the world. This only furthered Eliwood’s arousal as the boy began to jerk and buck next to the Ostian, his voice having placated the primal releases of his body. As Hector stroked, feeling the boy’s member become firm and slicked in the anticipation of release, he lay a line of kisses down on the boy’s cheek, down to his neck, and then to his shoulder – where he stopped just shy of the newly-made scar.

Hector stroked with increased tempo, his pace now a solid, fast intensity – Eliwood was all but doubled over from the pleasure now, squirming and sticky and, Hector was happy to realise, hot.

With only a squeaking, shuddering gasp of warning, Eliwood came. He arched his back as the warm, white fluid of release spilled from his shaft, through Hector’s fingers, and across his own skin and clothes, the rush of complete ecstasy taking him. Hector couldn’t help but smile as he then relaxed back into his sheets, red-faced and panting, heart pounding in his ribcage.

Hector stole another kiss from the boy as he began to mellow, softening again into a softer, gentler being. “Is that better?” Hector asked. Eliwood only murmured in silent, appreciative agreement as he began to drift off, seemingly unbothered by his wetness. Hector smiled softly, regarding the boy curiously, and after wiping his hands – and as much as he could of Eliwood – with a small cloth he then stuffed in his pocket, wrapped himself back around the boy’s sleeping form.

As Hector closed his eyes and began to drift off, he couldn’t help but feel a loving heartbeat within him. Both boys slept then, each of them silken in comfort and warmth and each taking in the scent of the other.

\--

“And so, Lord Uther, you must agree. The case for Lundgren to take rulership of Caelin is-”

The stuffy official’s comment was interrupted by a flurry of lighthearted chuckles from the middle of the dinner table. From the dignified end of this arrangement, the Lady Eleanora cast a loving glance over at her son, whose laughter had spilled over from quiet giggling to nearly unrestrained cackling.

“Eliwood, dear,” she inquired. “What’s so funny?”

“It was, ah,” he gasped between heaves. “Nothing, mother. Hector’s joke was very funny, that’s all.”

“Worth sharing?” Elbert asked warmly, fork still poised in his hand.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Hector said warmly. “It was pretty specific.”

Elbert gave off warm, paternal laughter. “I recall saying similar things to my lord father. Very well – but keep it down just a while longer, okay? His lordship is talking.”

“Yes, father!” Eliwood beamed an ebullient smile and went in on his plate for another forkful.

Uther shot Hector a look somewhere between questioning suspicion and impressed relief, but then changed it all to an appreciative, approving smile that warmed the younger brother’s innards. As the man droned on, Hector left his once-concerned brother’s gaze behind, and turned back to his friend – the way Eliwood looked at him was magical, eyes full of hope and daring. It was those eyes, that smile, and the wonderful person that made them shine; these things, Hector swore, he would protect.

He knew that it was these things, one way or another, that he loved.


End file.
